


Ground Swell

by rosereddawn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholism, Domesticity, M/M, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 20:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2634593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosereddawn/pseuds/rosereddawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What could be a civilian's life by the seaside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ground Swell

Benny watches from the shadow of the doorway while Dean unpacks: a large needle, disinfectants, a plastic bag with an attached tube. Watches as he lays it all out on the table like he’s going to war. Sorry, he said as he came in. Ran into trouble. The cooler by his feet is full of these bags, all empty, and so are Benny’s stomach and fridge.

“You don’t have to do that, brother.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean’s already shrugged off his button-down and reaches for the antiseptics. “What’s plan B?”

Helpless, Benny laughs. “I’ll be sure to let you know once I’ve figured that out.” Ah hell, he never meant to sound so lost. Catch a ride and come topside, that was supposed to be the difficult part.

And now he’s got Dean sitting at his table, a giant needle in hand, opening and closing his left fist, looking for a vein. It shames him and he looks away. 

Through the window, he can hear the faint crashing of the waves down at the beach. It’s noon and the midday sun makes his eyes sting, but after a few decades in twilight, he likes keeping the drapes open.

When the smell of blood hits him, the world turns a deep, dark red. His fangs want to jump out; he wills them back quickly. 

“Ah, damn it. Help me out here.” Two drops of blood well up just below the crook of Dean’s arm. He’s holding the needle at an awkward angle. Blinded, Benny isn’t sure whether he imagines the slight tremble in Dean’s hand.

“You trust me with that thing?”

“I keep missing. Come on.”

Dean’s heart beats steadier than Benny feels. Through the prickling sunlight, he walks over to the table, to where Dean holds his arm out. With all the care he can muster, Benny sets the needle. It slides easily into the clear line of the vein. Blood immediately starts flowing through the tube and he might get a little caught up in watching it pool in the bag, its color rich, almost purple. Only after a moment does he realize how still Dean’s keeping.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he mutters. 

The next fifteen minutes, he spends behind the closed bathroom door, sitting on the edge of the tub, feeling either like praying or crying; he’s not sure which. 

-

The table’s been cleaned up, the equipment’s gone, replaced by a brown paper bag. Only a faint scent of blood lingers, emanating from the bandage wrapped tightly around Dean’s forearm. He’s sitting in the same spot, slipping his shirt back on. “Sandwich is in the fridge, honey,” he says, biting back a grin, and Benny likes the way that looks on him. 

He fills a glass with tap water and, taking a place across from Dean, shoves it across the scratched plastic surface. “How you feeling?”

“Good. Good enough.” He takes a sip. 

“Look a little pale around the nose.” Benny says it to tease, but there are shadows under Dean’s eyes, a thinness to his skin, more noticeable in the clear light. 

Dean scrunches his face in return. He reaches into the bag for a burger that he unwraps hastily. Instead of taking a bite, though, he turns it in his hands a couple of times, like it might look more appetizing from some other angle. To Benny, its smell is nothing short of pungent.

“Even I can see this thing’s no fun eating. How about I make you something?”

“Nah, that’s not necessary.”

“Come on, it’s the least I can do.” Benny’s already up and moving across the room towards the window sill and its pile of brightly colored leaflets that keep turning up in the post. He grabs one, turns it around and starts scribbling down a list. “Unless you’re in a hurry?”

There’s a break, long enough for Benny to stop writing and look up. He schools his face; no one needs to know if his heart feels like sinking. 

Dean shakes his head, though, finally. “I got time. So what’s on offer, chef? You don’t happen to bake?”

“I do, but only for a living. All I got in here is a stove top. Kitchen wasn’t the main criteria for picking the place,” Benny says apologetically. “But you’ll like it. I just gotta pick up a few items first.”

Dean shoves his chair back far enough to grab the list. “It’s alright, I got it. I need to stock up on a couple of things anyway.” On what, he doesn’t say. He rests his forearms against the backrest while he skims over the list. The paper trembles. “Shrimp, huh?”

“Trust your chef.”

A last conflicted glance at the discarded burger, then Dean folds up the paper and gets going. “You got it.” 

Benny points Dean in the direction of the market, and then listens to that big black car of his drive away. A heavy silence spreads in its wake. He opens the window to better hear the waves, but they remain distant. 

Sitting alone at the kitchen table, Benny takes his meal.

-

Dean’s chopping bell peppers and celery while Benny darkens the roux in an old, awry pot that came with the place. He pretends not to notice how Dean empties half a can of beer in one go or how he opens the second just a few minutes later. His hands wielding the knife are steady now. When he sees Benny looking, he pops a piece of pepper into his mouth and chews defiantly until Benny laughs. 

-

“Looks like a good place,” Dean says while he’s eating, with a vague nod that could encompass anything: the roof over Benny’s head, the fishing place out here close to the shore, the job Benny scored at the local cafe. Could mean a steady thing, once he’s figured out that one pressing point of how to keep himself fed.

“Anyone know you’re here?” Dean adds.

“Just you and me, brother.”

Dean picks the last bite from the plate, then turns the empty fork between his fingers for a long moment before putting it down on the porcelain, with a definite sound. His eyes remain here, with Benny and the table between them, but everything in his posture leans towards the door.

“Sam waiting for you?”

“Nah, he’s uh. Hell, I don’t know what he’s doing.” He rubs his mouth and sags into the chair.

The sun’s close to setting. The patch falling through the open window has finished its trail through the room; just a thinning stripe remains at the far wall. 

“If nothing’s calling you back, why not stick around? And get some pie tomorrow morning to get you on the road, huh? We got pecan and blueberry, and a word from the chef scores you an extra big piece. How does that sound?”

Dean runs his hand over the back of his head like he’s thinking, but his eyes getting a little bigger gives his answer away. “Sounds like a deal.” 

-

Benny washes up and dries the dishes and puts them back into the cupboard. Over the clattering of the pots, he hears Dean break another can out of the tray. The sweetish smell of beer isn’t something that appeals to him much. 

The light outside is getting hazy, and the sunburnt sensation on his skin fades to a comfortable warmth.

“You wanna take a walk?”

“A walk?”

Dean’s got his finger on the tab like he’s about to pull it open.

“Liven up my complexion with a little sun.” Benny laughs and goes to grab his shades like the matter’s been decided, and indeed, Dean puts the beer can down with a perplexed expression and follows.

It’s a small place. Just a handful of boats are bobbing on the quiet surface of the water. Some larger ones, white and sleek, without much sign of wear, are towed further down at another pier, but Benny rarely finds himself walking that far. The picture here looks familiar, with the wooden jetty and the scratched paint and the thick smell of the sea.

He takes his boots off and curls up his cuffs to walk barefoot along the edge of the water, a little unsteady when his feet sink in the sand. The horizon flares up in shades of orange and red, colors entirely absent down below. 

“Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at that.”

Dean mumbles something about kitsch, quiet and without much conviction. He too lets his eyes wander out across the water, and Benny’s acutely aware of himself, here, of the cold waves rolling out around his ankles, and Dean next to him bare of all weapons.

It’s not a mask, not a lie, this civilian attire he’s donned. Hunger, however, never sleeps for long.

-

“I can give it another try tomorrow,” Dean says on the way back. “Might be luckier this time.”

“Yeah. If it’s not an issue.” Benny reaches out, lets two fingers touch Dean’s forearm. “Thank you.”

Dean shakes his head. “It’s alright.”

They walk in silence. Night’s falling fast now. With signs and window and street lights coming on, some corners feels as bright as during the day.

Back at the house, while waiting for Benny to unlock the door, Dean says, “We got a job around St. Louis next.” Looks at the car while he says it, like it reminded him. “Just so you know, I won’t be able to check in.”

The key turns and for a moment, Benny feels like giving up all that lies behind this door. 

Then he nods, steps in and turns on the light. “Don’t you worry about me.” Droping his shades next to the leaflets, he adds, “All I gotta do is find someone who wants to make an extra buck. I got a regular income now, right? Soon I’ll be grocery shopping like the regular folks.” 

\--

The first weeks, Benny barely managed to doze through the harsh light of the midday, jolting back to full consciousness every time his mind started to drift. It’s better now. Easier. The sea helps. What’s different to before is that sleep is a black void. There have been no more dreams since Eve. 

He still keeps an ear pricked. That one’s a hard habit to shed. The sudden thunder of Dean’s heart would have woken him anyway, and if not that, then Dean kicking at the bed sheets and scrambling upright, gasping for air. The bed smells of the sour stench of sweat. 

Benny doesn’t say anything. He just props himself up against the headboard so Dean knows he’s awake. This too is familiar. What’s different are mattress and pillow; what’s different is the light. Pale and silvery, just past the full moon. Purgatory only knows a starless sky.

Eventually Dean lets his legs drop over the edge of the bed, hangs his head for a moment, and then gets up. He pads into the kitchen for a glass of water. When he comes back, he’s shivering, but it’s only the cold this time. 

He settles closer to Benny, face turned into the creases of the pillow, half-hidden behind his hand. Benny squeezes his shoulder and then pulls up the sheets. His hand comes to rest on Dean’s forearm and while he waits for Dean’s breath to turn shallow and even, his thumb strokes lazy patterns up and down across the edge of the bandage. 

The sound of Dean’s heart fills the room, fills it with life. That Benny technically doesn’t possess one of his own falls away from his mind, a moot concern. He’s got his undead soul, and for a few hours, that soul feels home.


End file.
